Swastika Ashes
by Hermione Prime
Summary: In 1940, Hitler's reign took its toll on Britain. Harry and Tom are taken by the Nazis to Berlin, and held captive in a concentration camp. Injured during an escape attempt, Harry is left to die. Mercifully found and blooded by an elderly vampire lord, Harry is introduced to a new world of aristocratic vampirism. Grey!Vampire!Harry. Different Boy-Who-Lived. AU. Full summary inside.
1. London Bombing

Swastika Ashes

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.**

**Summary: **

** 1940, Second World War. Hitler's reign took its toll on Great Britain. When a German bomb hit Wool's orphanage, Harry Potter and Tom Riddle are forced to evacuate with other children on a London train heading for the docks. The train was intercepted, the children seized by Nazis. Held captive in a Berlin concentration camp, Harry is injured during an attempted escape and left to die. **

**Coincidentally found and blooded by an elderly vampire lord, Harry gains immortality and is introduced to a new, sophisticated world of aristocratic vampirism. Slowly, he finds his place and wins his maker's affection.**

**Decades later, in 1996, Lord Voldemort recruits vampire covens for the upcoming wizarding war, when he plans on destroying the Boy-Who-Lived. What is Harry's part in this...and how would this concern his new-found vampire family?**

**Grey! Vampire! Harry. Different Boy-Who-Lived. AU mentorship.**

* * *

"Great liars are also great magicians." – Adolf Hitler

_Extract:_

_He lay bleeding on the ground, feeling the essence of his own life, his very soul ebb gently away as his lifeblood seeped from his body and tainted the snow beneath him a deep crimson red._

_Tom, Hitler, Ludwig… their faces danced oddly in his dying mind – drifting in and out, in and out._

_He felt the eager bite of cold when he tried to move his fingers. He was powerless, helpless against the force of Hitler's generation, powerless against nature._

_The snow surrounded him like a crystal coffin. Like a white, shining guardian angel. It was beautiful to die this way. He had not felt so pure since he had arrived at that blasted camp._

_Snowflakes glided down from the heavens and settled on his cheek. Their caress was so soft. He had not felt anything so soft for as long as he could remember._

_"Death is but the next great adventure," Dumbledore had always said._

_Now that he thought about it, he had not heard his old headmaster's voice for what seemed like a century. It was a pity, a shame that he could never see Dumbledore again._

_Perhaps Tom still had a chance. _

_He hoped, with all his willpower, that Tom would be able to get away from this hellish place. He hoped…_

_After a certain time, that seemed like an eternity, he felt his senses being drained. No more pain, no more…anything really._ _He was ready._

_The last thing he saw before he faded was a pair of hardened dark eyes. _

* * *

Dense, grey banks of cloud coalesced into a veil rolling across great London city. Somehow, it cast a dim light on everything in Harry's sight.

After an exceedingly educational and exhilaratingly intense year at Hogwarts – what with all his fifth year exams – Harry could not _bear_ to return to the orphanage again.

He had always loathed it there. Wool's Orphanage with its bleary walls barren, with its petite windows, the filthy bedrooms, the stinking floors that reeked up the entire place, and its disgusting food that reminded Harry of pig slops.

It was a great shame that he was now standing in front of it, with the Head Prefect of Hogwarts.

If he had to be honest, he was slightly intimidated by the Slytherin Prefect – not because he belonged in Slytherin – but because there was a powerful, authoritative manner encircling him.

His blue eyes, as piercing as ice shards, flashed with genuine supremacy. His dark, ebony hair was preened back neatly, out of the way. And his poise… it was indescribable.

The boy, Tom Riddle, was elegant, charismatic, polite, modest and clever; every desirable human trait combined in one person. At least when he was at Hogwarts.

Harry had seen, with his own eyes, how the handsome Slytherin treated those children in the orphanage they shared. He regarded them the same way as he regarded the rest of the orphanage. Like dirt beneath his shoes.

The children did not speak of Riddle with much fondness either. The various nicknames they had called him when Riddle was younger varied from 'freak' to 'monster'.

Naturally, they didn't dare call him that now – the normal custom, Harry believed, was to avoid a certain 'spawn of the devil'.

He had also heard rumours, about how the Slytherin had once killed Billy Stubb's rabbit, and how he toyed with Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop's minds.

There had been something wrong with them ever since they came back from the cave.

Harry didn't believe any of it.

"Tom," he inquired softly, "what did you get for your O.W.L's last year?"

The Prefect slowly turned to face him, as if astonished by the sudden question from a reserved boy who had rarely ever spoken to him.

"Outstanding," he replied curtly, "for all my subjects."

"Oh." Harry was taken aback but he ought to have expected nothing less from the star pupil. "Congratulations."

Tom dismissed it with an impatient wave of his hand. "It's fine, I've been congratulated last year," he said. "Good luck on yours."

"Thank you."

Normally, Harry would never have gotten any chance to speak to the Slytherin. Tom Riddle was almost like a celebrity at Hogwarts; the teachers adored him, the students admired him, the girls wooed him. His popularity was endless.

But, like Harry, he _had_ to return to the orphanage they shared during the summer holidays.

Wool's Orphanage was a grim place to grow up. The matron, Mrs Cole, tried to give them the best of everything – but in these days, 'best' wasn't much.

Harry could remember his joy when he had his first conversation with Professor Dumbledore. He had thought he was from the asylum, but he needn't have worried.

During school, he could almost forget about the orphanage, push it to the back of his head, and savour the freedom of magic…

Now, unfortunately, he was back. Glancing towards Tom's impassive features, Harry swung open the orphanage doors and stepped in.

—0O0—

Dinner was always an aggressive affair at Wool's Orphanage.

All the parentless children would leap forward and grab whatever stale bread was on the table and guard their pieces with their lives. They acted with the savagery of cavemen.

Sometimes, when Mrs Cole was there perhaps, the orphans would behave themselves but more often than not; _someone_ would end up with a bloody nose from a fist.

And it was never Harry, nor Tom. They sat back, and patiently waited for the kicking, and punching and snatching to cease before stepping forward to claim the little that was left.

Going to Hogwarts had its perks. For example, Harry never went hungry; during the year he would build up and that meant when he went back to the orphanage he would not have to scavenge for food like a wild dog.

It was the dignity he still had that set him apart from the other children.

This evening, his appetite had completely vanished, leaving behind a horrid, empty sensation. He _hated_ coming back, _hated it_.

He spooned his thin, yellowy gruel absent-mindedly. Aside from the nauseating smell wafting towards his nose, it looked like a weak, runny mixture that would not satisfy even the scrawniest of rats. Maybe that was why everyone looked so malnourished.

He felt grateful towards the matron, who now sat at the head of the shaky table, for making an appearance this evening.

Her niece was dreadfully ill, and yet she still found the duty within her to show up and welcome Harry and Tom 'home'.

Harry turned his attention towards the conversation Mrs Cole was now holding with Bradley Collins, eighteen years of age and sure to be one of biggest brutes in England.

"Martha says the Germans defeated the Polish in just a few weeks," Collins said. "We've declared war on Germany, haven't we?"

Before Mrs Cole could say anything, Tom cut in, "That is old news."

Bradley Collins visibly bristled. "Germany's gaining power. They are already hammering on England's doorstep."

Mrs Cole blanched. "Don't say that, Bradley, please. You'll scare the younger children." She looked meaningfully at the other occupants at the table.

Tragically, all it seemed to do was encourage him. "So it's true," he said triumphantly. "England needs more soldiers."

"Hitler is an evil man, you must understand that," Mrs Cole lowered her voice. "But even the _most_ evil of men can falter. Nazi Germany will collapse, mark my words, like all the other nations who have started wars."

"I disagree," Tom countered immediately. "Hitler has been preparing Germany for many years. They have caught the Allies completely off guard."

Harry noted that there was a rich passion in his voice, as he expressed his conceptions.

"Been reading the newspaper have you, pipsqueak?" Bradley snarled menacingly, furious at Tom's place in the spotlight.

"Now, children, don't fight," Mrs Cole soothed. "Whatever Germany is up to, it does not affect us. Just eat your dinner."

"Just because you got selected for your rich, snobby private school doesn't mean you are a whole head above the rest of us, you know?" Bradley continued relentlessly. "Besides, what do you know? You're a stupid child."

Harry winced. It was cruel.

"Hush," Mrs Cole ordered. "Tom isn't stupid, even if he is only sixteen. In fact, Professor Dumbly tells me he is the brightest of his year."

"What sort of name is Dumbly?" Bradley sneered. "It's a crackpot name."

"It isn't polite to make fun of other people's names," the orphanage matron reprimanded sternly.

"You know the Germans call the Jews unclean?" Bradley suddenly veered off topic. "Hitler wants to execute them all. I think it's called a geno…geno."

"It's genocide," Tom said coldly. "The Führer, either for propaganda reasons or personal, accuses the Jews for undermining the war effort. Every German compares them to vermin now."

"Yeah, that," Bradley said quickly. "They take them to concentration camps and work them until they crumple and then they take them to gas chambers. It's all on the newspaper. The Jews get gassed in hundreds."

"This is not an appropriate table top conversation," Mrs Cole protested. "We should all be eating."

Harry could not resist in adding a piece of information he heard. "I think it's not just Jews. It's all the elements they consider undesirable. They gas homosexuals, criminals, Gypsies, Communists, and even the occasional Englishman too."

"That is _enough!_" Mrs Cole said sharply. "I will not have you talking about matters like these. The Nazis have done appalling things, but I can assure you the war will not reach us while we are safely here, in London. England will protect us."

"I'm eighteen," Bradley snapped. "I'm an adult. I should get to do what I like. And I don't want to stay here cowering like the rest of you anymore! I want to join the British army, and fight Germany like a hero."

"Heroes do not exist," Tom murmured, under his breath – so softly that only Harry caught the words.

Meanwhile, the matron was looking shocked. "You can't join the army," she said, flabbergasted at the idea.

"I _can_, and I will," Bradley all but roared. "The orphanage only has place for the young kids. In normal circumstances, I should be fending for myself when I reached eighteen."

By now, all the heads had turned to observe the drama.

"You'd be right," Mrs Cole said gently, her face a shade paler than usual, "in _normal circumstances_. However, our country is at war. Do you have any idea how many of our soldiers die each week? I'd be damned if I let you go out _there_."

By _there _Harry guessed she meant the battlefields.

One of the younger children, a girl, whimpered at the noise. "Mrs Cole," she said, "why are you fighting with Brad? What are _normal circumstances?"_

Harry could not help but feel a sting of sorrow. He knew the girl meant to ask meaning of the two words – but it sounded as if she no longer knew what normal circumstances were.

Suddenly, he wasn't sure if _anyone_ even knew what they were.

"We're not fighting, Jessica, promise. We're _talking_ about… Brad's future."

Tom, exhaling in exasperation, shoved his chair back and stood. "Pardon me, Mrs Cole, but I feel like an early bedtime. It must be the exhaustion."

He left.

Soon after, Harry also left to go to bed.

—0O0—

It was a terrifying feeling to wake up in enveloping darkness to deafening sounds.

But it was those very sounds that perhaps saved Harry's life.

Mixed within the sounds were emotions – fear, rage, triumph, revenge, thirst. Harry jerked awake to see a silhouette rushing at full speed towards him.

It was Martha, a young lady who worked at the orphanage for money and continued working even when Mrs Cole had no more money to pay her.

Martha was frantic. "Get up, _get up!"_ She shrieked, almost hysterically. "Come on, hurry, and get your clothes on!"

The thought of disobeying never occurred to Harry.

A flash of red erupted outside his window. There was a loud, sharp shattering sound – accompanied by Martha's screams.

The whole orphanage seemed to rock. And for a moment, Harry thought the roof was going to fall and cave in upon them.

"It's fine, it's fine, oh, thank God," Martha blurted, hugging Harry tightly to her chest. "They've missed us… for now. Heavens, I thought they got us, there."

It all seemed so surreal, so unreal. Harry could remember leaping off the bed and hastily getting dressed, fumbling to do his buttons as fast as he could.

And then he was herded out by a shaken Martha, whose face was ashen. Her hand, even as it gripped his shoulders firmly, were quivering.

Only then did he realise the severity of their current situation.

He saw the other children flooding out into the corridor like a frightened burrow of rabbits. He saw Mrs Cole bravely shouting for everyone to calm down.

Cries, whimpers, yells and exclamations of fear rang in his ears… and yet he kept silent and attentive, rushing forward to gather the younger children together.

When all members of the orphanage – from its staff to its younglings – dashed out of the building, Harry saw vividly red colours dominating the skies. Overhead soared roaring planes.

The planes circled above them like dark seraphim.

At first he thought it was the Allies, but then… he saw it. The sign on the left wing of the plane. The dreaded symbol of death, a symbol the world had come to know.

The Swastika had journeyed over to England all the way from Nazi Germany.

Comprehension hit him like a bucket of freezing water. Mrs Cole was wrong about the war never reaching them.

London, right this millisecond, was being bombed.

* * *

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	2. Kommandant

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.**

**A round of thanks to everyone who reviewed - and a special expression of gratitude to my lovely readers from Dawn Crux who came and gave this a chance as a favour to me!**

* * *

_The planes circled above them like dark seraphim._

_At first he thought it was the Allies, but then… he saw it. The sign on the left wing of the plane. The dreaded symbol of death, a symbol the world had come to know. _

_The Swastika had journeyed over to England all the way from Nazi Germany._

_Comprehension hit him like a bucket of freezing water. Mrs Cole was wrong about the war never reaching them._

_London, right this millisecond, was being bombed._

* * *

"We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender." – Winston Churchill

* * *

Shrieks, cries and screeches impaled the evening atmosphere of London city. The Germans had come just after dark… striking at the heart of England.

Harry could feel the tremble in the ground as the earth itself quaked under the blasts of heavy bombs at their work of tearing entire buildings apart.

Chilling sirens echoed in the distance, accompanied by the deafeningly harsh grinding of the German planes overhead.

He had seen many big fires before in his life, but he had _never_ seen the whole horizon of a city light up, lined with scores of licking flames, hundreds, as they played the tune to their destructive nature.

Mrs Cole, from someplace behind him, screamed at the horror of it all while attempting to hide the younger children from the scene. Harry guessed she wanted to preserve what was left of their pure innocence.

Scorching bodies were littered like a river of redness in the distance, even as more citizens fell victims to the bombs.

The stench of burning flesh, sweat, fear and blackened corpses that hung sickly in the air made Harry want to retch.

He watched in a combination of revulsion and terror as an old man, with half of his face begrimed by soot, stumbled past him, calling out, "Julie, _Julie_, where are you?"

A large chunk of his leg had been taken out, and he was bleeding freely on the pavement. He finally collapsed over the ruins of what had once been a building, sobbing uncontrollably as he tried to move the giant concrete blocks.

Harry closed his eyes for the fleetest of seconds, shutting the picture out from his mind.

The closest blazes were crackling, lashing out charring trees while flickering brilliantly against the firemen's gallantry.

Miniature sparks matured into dangerous infernos right under their dismayed eyes. Big fires died down under the water hoses, only to break out again when the attention was diverted.

"_Mrs Cole!_"

Harry heard the shrill, excited voice of one of the smallest girls in the orphanage call out above the angry pulsations of the plane motors.

"Mrs Cole…!" The girl wobbled to the matron's side on her stubby legs and tugged feverishly on her sleeve. "So beautiful, like fireworks! Celebrate! What is this?"

There was something beautiful, magnificent in the deadly savagery of the bombing. Deaths flashed past their very pupils, full of fervent colours.

Mrs Cole hushed the naive child. "This is war," she said softly.

A new wave of planes, attractively silver in the sky, would sweep pass every five seconds, carrying with them a new flurry of bombs.

In the distance, guns sounded. Often muffled, faraway – but occasionally sharp.

Once, one of the guns seemed to have taken out its target. Abruptly, a Nazi plane dropped like an angel from the sky, its silver wings folding in upon itself. The Swastika symbol caught fire like the rest of the plane.

For a brief while, Harry smiled.

But then the bombs restarted their rhythm. _Boom_…silence…_boom_.

His shocked trance was broken by the enraged shouts of Tom Riddle. Harry glanced up to see the Slytherin struggling violently against Martha's arms.

The Head Boy's expression was thunderous, murderous as he attempted to loosen Martha's hold on his waist.

"Let go of me, you filthy woman!" Tom hissed coldly. "I will make you pay."

"Mrs Cole," Martha yelped, "come help me stop him!"

As Mrs Cole rushed to the rescue, Harry saw the desperate glint in the Slytherin's wide blue eyes.

"I need it. It is more important than _you_ can ever understand!" Tom exploded, twisting free of Martha only to run into Mrs Cole's iron clasp.

"He wants to go back into the orphanage," Martha exclaimed. "Don't let him go, Mrs Cole. He'll never be able to come out. Mad, he is, risking his life for a possession."

_Crrraaaackkk! _

The eruption ripped into the orphanage building as one of the bombs found a direct hit. A resounding roar, more piercing than anything Harry had ever experienced, bit agonisingly into his ear.

The mightiest of firestorms was suddenly directly in front of them, filling their vision with red. Flames seemed to whip hundreds of feet into the air.

Pinkish-white smoke ballooned upward in a great cloud that encircled the rubble that had once been the orphanage.

The force of it blasted all of them backwards, like helpless ragdolls.

When they climbed to their feet, miraculously unharmed with the exception of a few scrapes and bruises, Tom stared up at the wreckage in disbelief.

Martha and Mrs Cole, on the other hand, frantically gathered the children around them and herded hastily them away from the debris.

They joined a line of survivors, who were determinedly making their way South.

"Where are you heading?" Mrs Cole asked.

"Underground station," a young woman replied, peering out at the matron from under her bonnet, while hugging a baby close to her chest.

"Will it be safe?"

"We hope so," the young woman said. "We heard an organisation is coming to evacuate all the healthy children to other parts of the country or, if they're lucky, Australia."

Mrs Cole's face lit up like a light bulb on a Christmas tree. "_All_ children? Even poor ones with no money?"

The woman nodded her head firmly, with one of her golden curls bobbing up and down. "Even those, as long as they are healthy. Are all these children yours?"

"I am the matron of a local orphanage," Mrs Cole explained. "I need to find a place for them."

"That wouldn't be a problem." The woman gave them a dazzling smile. "As long as you can bear to part with them, England will be working to save our future."

"Anything for them to be safe," Mrs Cole murmured.

—0O0—

The underground station was eerily dim.

As he cautiously followed Mrs Cole into the darkness, an intense reek of singed flesh, vomit and urine wafted towards Harry. He gagged, choking in the terror of the disgusting odour.

Against the cramped walls, along both sides, were men, women and children leaning with their legs sprawled on the damp ground.

The entire station was alive with sounds of screaming children, and weeping women. Harry could hardly bear the sight.

He saw an old, grey lady hugging the still body of a young man against her upper body, mumbling a prayer. His breath caught in his chest.

"Come here, children," Mrs Cole whispered. She drew her hands across the eyes of a younger boy, and gestured for them to stay together. "Do not look."

It was difficult not to stare, let alone look.

Harry abruptly felt a jerk on his sleeve. Glancing down, he saw a bald, leering man on his knees and stark naked with the exception of his boxers. It was awful. Of the man's two front teeth one was chipped and the other was missing.

"Please, good sir, spare me the clothes on your back – and I swear, I will remember your kind deed forever!" the man implored. "Me, I got nothin', take a good long look at me. I got nothin'."

The begging man gave a hard yank at Harry's trousers, and offered a forced grin. "Me, I can take this one, I can."

Feeling sick to the back teeth, Harry tugged himself free from the man's vice-like grasp and hurried after Mrs Cole. "I'm sorry," he called back guiltily, "I cannot…"

The rest of the sentence went unfinished as the crawling man disappeared into the gloom.

Clearly, the man was insane.

Harry lowered his head. If the war had stolen the previous man's sanity, he wondered what the war would snatch from _him_.

"Did you leave _it_ at the orphanage?"

Harry lurched from his reverie and twisted around and was hailed with the full radiating intensity of Tom Riddle's gaze as the older boy scrutinised him.

"Pardon?" he asked.

"Did you leave your _wand_ at the orphanage?" Tom repeated, with a hint of impatience and a lowered tone.

Harry swerved to a dead halt. The little colour that was left in his cheeks drained rapidly away. "It…" he paused, paling. "I do not have it with me."

A snarl arose from the back of Tom Riddle's throat, and he narrowed his eyes sharply at Harry.

All of a sudden, Harry was not sure whether the Slytherin was livid at _him_ or some other poor individual.

"I assume it is at the bottom of your trunk?" Riddle inquired, coldly. "One does not expect to need a wand when surrounded with Muggles."

He nodded, numbly. "Do you have _your_ wand?"

The spark of wintry irritation on Tom's grim face confirmed everything Harry ever wanted to know.

"…It is unfortunate," Harry said quietly, "that neither of us have wands."

"Hopefully," Tom said frigidly, "we will not be requiring them."

Harry was struck by an abrupt realisation. "You were trying to rescue your wand. Martha thought you were possessed."

"Can you perform wandless magic?"

"No…" Harry said. "I thought the Hogwarts curriculum does not cover it until the end of seventh year."

"Hmmm…"

It was a dismissive answer, and Harry knew the Slytherin had gotten weary of their tiresome, whispered conversation.

After that, neither of them spoke.

—0O0—

"Our Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, is determined to defend our mighty nation to the end. No matter what the cost, we must not allow the Germans to take our pride, our dignity, our freedom, even if they take our limbs or our lives!"

Harry clapped along with the rest, slapping his palms together so fiercely until they hurt.

An inspirational speech was what they needed most. The citizens of Great Britain were disillusioned from losing their loved ones that they had given up on ever seeing the ending days of war.

"Hitler, the pathetic little worm, knows he cannot subdue our country. He changed his tactics and turned his attention on destroying _your_ homes," the rousing young lady, with the tight bun, bellowed.

Shouts of agreement and outrage greeted her words – and Harry could almost feel the forceful hatred vibrating off the injured in the station.

"He thinks he can demoralize you, so that our nation, as a whole, falters under his blows!" the woman yelled, pumping her fist into the air in emphasise. "But _we_ know it is not going to happen, not now, not _ever!_"

Harry could see, in the darkness, the looks of triumph the woman's associates traded with one another.

It was their duty to reawaken the hope in the hearts of their people – and they were doing their duty excellently.

"Tonight is a night when London is ringed and stabbed with fire. Our buildings have been torn down, and so have our houses," the woman said. "However, acceptance is not the right answer to a disaster. When everything has been taken from us, we do not _give up_; we take it back!"

The entire underground station breathed as one and roared as one, expressing their approval and disapproval as one. For a while, a few seconds, it felt as if they truly _were_ one, united and strong.

"_We_ will fight to the death, because after this evening, all of us will know that no matter what happens to us as individuals, our future generation will be safe."

The woman gazed at them, a glint of genuine happiness in her eyes. "We are taking away all healthy children, our promised future, and stowing them somewhere safe."

Before Harry fully comprehended what was happening, he found himself and several other children firmly tucked into Mrs Cole's wide arms as she sobbed relentlessly into their hairs.

She managed a bright smile through her tears. "May God be with you," she said. "You, all of you, are my children, and I am content knowing you are safe."

That was how Harry found himself pushed and shoved into a group of children where he was poked and prodded with needles.

In roughly an hour's time, he was taken from the underground station by the young woman and her associates, and hurried to a nearby train station.

As he stood in the line of the declared healthy children and waited to board the train, he spotted Tom Riddle's elegant silhouette ahead of him.

It was a relief, when enclosed by alien smells, appearances and noises, to know that someone familiar was close at arm's reach.

When he finally squeezed into the train, it felt as if he would suffocate in the lack of oxygen.

Children stood like toys stuffed in a toy box in all directions.

Harry could smell the cold sweat on one of the children who were pressing into him, and he was also uncomfortably aware that through the whole journey – which could possibly be hours – he would be pushed forcefully into various warm bodies without any sense of personal space.

There was no space to be spared.

The train let out a series of hoots before the wheels underneath her began to rotate.

And then, off they went into the night accompanied by the soothing, rhythmic rocking as the transportation carried itself over bumps in the railway.

—0O0—

When the train screeched to a stop, it was met with uproar and unsettling commotion.

Harry could easily understand that perhaps there would be people eagerly waiting for the exhausted children, but the clamour was a little too loud to be taken as natural.

It bordered on frightening.

If he was not mistaken, there was even the shot of a gun firing, and he did not think he was.

Not many words could be made out, and Harry could not recognise the words that he _did_ make out. It did not sound like English, or any other language he had heard before. It certainly was not French.

"Aussteigen!" a voice thundered from the darkness outside. "_Raus hier!_ _Holen Sie sich schnell!_"

With a deafening clank, the door on the train was torn open, and bitter wind blew ruthlessly inside. Harry shivered.

Whether at the cold or the trepidation, he did not know.

A handsome, uniformed man sprang in, his face twisted in a demonic way. "Aussteigen!" he barked.

When not a single person moved or reacted, he brutally seized the girl closest to him, lifted her off the ground by the roots of her hair and tossed her bodily out of the train.

A thump could be heard, followed by a shrill cry of pain.

"Aussteigen!"

The man viciously turned to another boy, jabbed the butt of his gun against his neck and prodded him out of the train.

"Beeilen Sie sich!" he spat, baring his glistening white teeth in what seemed like a sneer. And then, in a rich accent, he pronounced, "_Out_."

In the next instant, every child was quickly flooding out the door, desperate to obey.

The freezing night air was like a slap in the face to Harry.

Armed with countless artillery, there were over twenty attentive officers surrounding the train from all sides.

The young man who had shouted "Aussteigen" repeatedly at them saluted respectfully to an older, blond haired man who wore a black cowhide coat and a stringent peak hat with an emblazoned eagle.

"Kommandant, hier sind sie," he said, with a malicious laugh.

Without warning, the man turned. And his armband came into view.

Upon it was an imprinted Nazi Swastika in its full glory.


	3. Glorious Berlin

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me. Rather, he belongs to a genius of a lady called Joanne Rowling.**

**Please don't forget to review and tell me what you think. **

* * *

"Mankind has grown strong in eternal struggles and it will only perish through eternal peace." – Adolf Hitler

_"Beeilen Sie sich!" he spat, baring his glistening white teeth in what seemed like a sneer. And then, in a rich accent, he pronounced, "Out."_

_In the next instant, every child was quickly flooding out the door, desperate to obey. _

_The freezing night air was like a slap in the face to Harry. _

_Armed with countless artillery, there were over twenty attentive officers surrounding the train from all sides._

_The young man who had shouted "Aussteigen" repeatedly at them saluted respectfully to an older, blond haired man who wore a black cowhide coat and a stringent peak hat with an emblazoned eagle. _

_"Kommandant, hier sind sie," he said, with a malicious laugh. Without warning, the man turned. And his armband came into view. _

_Upon it was an imprinted Nazi Swastika in its full glory. _

Harry reeled backwards, his heart thrashing wildly against his chest. Hairs prickled in fear along the back of his neck. He drew in a quickened breath of alarm.

It felt as if his head had been plunged underwater and had been forced to remain there for minutes on end. He felt dangerously light headed.

All of it seemed so dreamlike.

Why, why on earth would the train be stopped? The children, they were meant to be _in safe hands_. Precautions had been taken to ensure their welfare…

Surely the train had not just been seized by the Germans?

Yet, as Harry stared intently at one armed Nazi corporal to another, he realised with a sinking sense of dread that they could indeed be helpless hostages.

The soldiers in pristine uniforms stood alertly with their guns hoisted and aimed at the group of children. Their eyes stared coldly, emotionlessly at them as they waited for orders to shoot.

The scariest quality to them, perhaps, was the smooth, blank expression carved on to the faces of each one of them.

On no account were the soldiers ugly; their classic German cheekbones were high, their noses prominent and their eyes were the most serene shade of blue… but they looked like the handsome mannequins one could see through a shop window.

Without empathy. Without sentiments. Trained for death.

Harry shivered.

The older man, who had been named Kommandant, strode towards them, his leather boots crunching against the leaves on the ground. His eyes were keen and assessing as he swept his gaze over the small huddled group.

The Kommandant circled them gently, his each step deliberate.

His uniform, laden with decorative badges, cast an ominous glow around him, marking him proudly as a high ranked Nazi official who was above mere soldiers.

"Children," he said softly, his breath wafting through the air as fog, "English children… Naughty, naughty, far away from home."

Standing amidst the cowering cluster, Harry felt as if ice had been slipped against his collarbone.

The German's words were laced with menace, threat and, above all, truth.

The Kommandant whirled around to face his men. "You see how weak the English are!" A deep chuckle emerged from his lips, a chuckle that might have sounded kindly if it wasn't for its true significance.

As Harry watched, sick, as the Nazi soldiers dropped their impassive expressions and laughed openly with their leader, mocking their misfortune and revelling in their fear.

"The English, full of arrogance and superiority, cannot protect their own children!" The Kommandant waved his gloved hand at the cringing group, and many individuals recoiled on instinct. "Not even their children."

"Should I give the order, the children will fall, one by one. England cannot prevent it." The Kommandant lowered his tone. "We have our Fatherland, and our Fuhrer. The English have nothing but their worthless Prime Minister."

Harry felt the claws of terror gripping him by the throat.

His eyes watered painfully, as he struggled not to blink them. If he missed seeing a movement, if the Nazis cocked their guns…

"These children will learn… Nothing stands in the way of the Third Reich, not their nation, not their mothers, not Winston Churchill."

Then, in one glorified moment, the Kommandant extended his right arm to eye level in a Nazi salute. In a crystal clear voice, he pronounced, "_Sieg Heil! Heil mein Fuhrer!"_

The soldiers allowed their rifles to lower and returned the gesture. "_Heil Hitler!"_

In that split second, while the Nazis were distracted and without weapons, one of the braver boys decided to make a run for it.

It was a silly thing to do, Harry knew, and the boy would only be caught and penalised. His first instinct was to shout and warn the boy – but that would have notified the Nazis.

Across the empty plain, the boy ran, in his bloated coat. He was moving quickly, like an animal dashing for freedom.

Nonetheless…

The Germans were faster. One of the soldiers spotted the escaping youth with an enraged yell of fury. In one swift movement he bent down and grasped his rifle.

Horror dawned upon Harry the same time the comprehension stuck him that the boy was not only going to lose his freedom but also his life.

The man was aiming… A vicious sneer etched into his face, keen on teaching the English children a lesson.

And the Kommandant was roaring an urgent order at the Nazi, above the noise of mass panic amongst the children, above the screams and cries and clamour. "Nein! Stoppen! Stoppen!"

The words were so familiar to his own language that Harry could almost grasp the meaning. _No! Stop! Stop! _

For one insane moment, the soldier hesitated, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief… But then… he pulled the trigger.

_Too late. _

His aim did not fail.

The bullet flew from the nozzle of the rifle, with mind-bursting speed. Flashing towards the boy. And plunged deeply itself in the back of his chest.

The boy swayed, his eyes widened in shock, and tilted. He glanced down at the blood gushing, swelling on his chest in childish disbelief, and even touched the redness with his fingertips. And then he fell, fall down into a hollow abyss of death.

Harry closed his eyes. This was war, never beautiful nor glorious.

"Es war ein Befehl!" the Kommandant snarled at the man who had gunned down the boy. "It was an order! You disobeyed it!"

"Herr Kommandant," the man struggled to explain, "the beast deserved it, you know as well as me."

"The _beast_," the Kommandant hissed, punctuating the term, "was to be taken back to Berlin! The Fuhrer commanded it."

"Es tut mir leid," the man said resignedly. "Pardon my rashness. It was not my intention –"

"Not your intention? And yet you expect me to clean up your messes?" He then proceeded to rip apart the man's dignity with a brutal dressing-down.

_Too late_. Harry had witnessed a boy murdered with his own eyes. It didn't even occur to him to doubt that he may suffer the same fate.

From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Tom. The Slytherin was the picture of calmness and composure. There was even the ghost of a smile perched delicately across his lips.

_Did the death of the boy not even affect him? _

Harry rebuked himself as soon as he asked himself the question. What kind of monster would he be if he wasn't dismayed in the least by something as wrong as murder?

And Harry knew, he knew that despite the Slytherin's apparent coldness that he was no monster. He was human. If anyone were monsters, it had to be the Nazis.

"As you can see… this is the outcome of any who defies us." The Kommandant was addressing them as a whole, seeming to have finished his conversation with the Nazi who had killed a child in cold blood.

"I would hate to see any more of you… dying. So, it would be best if you keep the _defying_ to a minimum."

The Kommandant had a no-nonsense tone that immediately dismissed the murder as a small accident best avoided, and not anything worth fretting over.

Harry felt a rush of hatred at the man, the man who was truly, inwardly, a monster.

If only he had his wand… He would be able to curse him, curse him until he begged for mercy. It was only justice.

But without his wand, he was weak; he was nothing. Oh, dear Merlin, he _wished_ he had his wand. It was like missing a limb without it securely in his hand.

"Your future, children, lies in the Fatherland, and it is our job to make sure you arrive safely," the Kommandant continued. "None of you will be heading for wherever your intended location was. Our new destination is Berlin."

_What a nightmare._

—0O0—

Exhausted, numb and cramped, was how Harry had arrived in Berlin. He felt as if his legs would give way any moment and leave him sprawled on the pavement.

The Kommandant had packed them onto a Nazi plane, uncaring if any of them had enough room to breathe, and smuggled all fifty or so children out of England.

With many apologies and trodden toes, Harry had managed to push his way across to Tom Riddle. He would have used the term 'furious' to describe the Slytherin Prefect, except that would have been the greatest understatement of the century.

Throughout the plane journey, Riddle's expression had been thunderous, deadly. Truthfully, he looked like he would strangle the first person who irritated him.

Harry could empathise with Riddle's mood.

He too wondered what they had left behind by flying to German, a Nazi infested Germany. Hogwarts was across many seas and terrains, in Scotland.

Would they still be able to go back to Hogwarts when the summer holidays were over and school started again?

Would they _ever_ go back to Hogwarts?

Everything was so uncertain – and he wasn't sure if he _wanted_ to be certain. He did not _want_ to know what the Nazis had in mind for them. It could not be anything good. And as everybody said: ignorance was bliss.

Harry's first glimpse of Berlin was impressive. Large buildings stretched towards the open skies, the roads were glimmering in the sunlight, and neatly dressed men and women were hurrying towards… wherever they wanted to go.

Great flags, blowing majestically in the wind, were literally everywhere. Eye-catching. Vivid red. Unified. Vast swastikas were drawn across the flags, promoting Hitler's message in all directions across the nation.

_Behold the glory, behold the wonder, _Harry thought sarcastically. He liked to think that London had appeared even more magnificent. Before the bombing, of course.

The Kommandant guided them to the nearest train station.

Men in Nazi work uniforms greeted the Kommandant warmly, as they approached one of the trains. Some saluted; others attracted his attention with waves. It seemed that the man was well-liked and well-known in the fields he worked in.

"Herr Kommandant," one said, "the train you reserved is ready whenever you are."

The Kommandant thanked him graciously, before leading the children onto the transport.

Harry was beginning to feel claustrophobic, being in such tight spaces for the third time in twenty four hours.

"I'll see you on your arrival," the Kommandant said to them, and closed the entrance with a solid thud.

Moments later, the train gave a hoot and a rumble, and began to shift.

He knew that his fate was looming closer with each centimetre the train covered. He also knew that tragedy lay ahead.

* * *

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